


Heal Thyself

by retrogrademercury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrogrademercury/pseuds/retrogrademercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as part of the johnlockchallenges January 2013 Grab Bag Challenge for the dialogue prompt "I think this may very well kill me" provided by Tumblr user inconvenientplaces.</p>
<p>After every case, John makes sure to take care of Sherlock. So, too, does Sherlock take care of John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal Thyself

John and Sherlock stumbled through the front door, showing all the signs of a productive night chasing down some of London's worst. This night's adventures had featured a counterfeiter with a long stride and a mean uppercut, and chasing him down had provided quite the well-rounded workout.

“All right, up you get,” John coaxed, allowing himself to be used as a human crutch for the moment. Sherlock had been knocked off his feet at one point, and John, fearing a concussion, was eager to survey and mitigate the damage.

“He tore my coat, I'm sure of it,” Sherlock complained. The creaky step on the stair seemed to commiserate with him.

“First we'll mend you, and then the coat,” John said firmly, guiding Sherlock to the sofa. “I'll be back in a moment. Don't fall asleep between now and then.”

“I'm sure I don't have a concussion. For one thing, I fell on my side,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I'll be the judge of that,” John called over his shoulder as he ducked into the loo to fetch his first-aid kit, some warm water, and a flannel. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he left. He'd been on the business end of one of the counterfeiter's punches, and the beginnings of a handsome bruise coloured one side of his face. It wasn't a pressing concern; he could tend to it later.

John returned to find Sherlock sitting obediently on the sofa, _sans_ coat and shoes and with cuffs unbuttoned. “Ready for the examination, Doctor?” he asked.

“As ready as you are, apparently.” John set his kit on the floor next to them and took out his pen light. “Let me check for that concussion.”

“I told you, I don't have one. I'm only letting you look so you won't worry.” John was thankfully quick about it, making sure not to shine the light in each of Sherlock's eyes for too long. To John's great relief, all signs pointed to a distinct lack of concussion, and it must have shown on his face.

“I told you so,” Sherlock muttered as John dropped the pen light into his bag. John pretended not to hear, and pulled up one of Sherlock's trouser cuffs to get a better look at an angry red scrape obtained in that same fall.

Though he would never admit it aloud, Sherlock enjoyed these little moments in the aftermath in which John would survey the damage and take care of him. While it was true, or had been in the past, that he regarded his body as mere transport, being with John was slowly beginning to change his mind.

“At any point during a case, did it ever occur to you it could be your last? Did you ever say to yourself, 'I think this may very well kill me'?” John's kept his tone neutral, if only because he was preoccupied with searching for gauze and tape in his kit.

“All the time,” Sherlock admitted. “But it's this or stagnation, and _that's_ a fate worse than death for someone with a mind as active as mine.”

“Fair point, I suppose. Now I'm going to roll up your sleeve; I need to see what exactly you did to your arm.”

“If you want to see what happened to my arm, I'll need to take my shirt off completely.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “I'd thought you past the point of being coy.”

“I thought you liked coy.” Sherlock made quick work of the buttons and draped the shirt over the back of the sofa. He craned his neck and lifted his now-bare arm. “Hmm. Small price to pay for preventing a concussion.”

“You're lucky it's not a break.” John gave the bruise a few tentative pokes and prods. “No scrapes, no cuts, just a bruise. Yes indeed, very lucky.” He paused, and was about to say more, when Sherlock took his face in his hands to get a better look at his own injury.

“Oh, that? That's nothing. Missed my teeth and nose,” John explained hurriedly, but the intent look on Sherlock's face silenced him.

“We should put some ice on that.”

“Really, I'll get to it later—”

“Or I could just kiss it and make it better.” Sherlock leaned in and placed a little peck on John's cheek.

But the adrenaline was still running high, and John wasn't finished worrying about Sherlock. “I'll be fine. I need to finish examining you,” he protested.

“I assure you, I will live. Could you at least let me try my hand at taking care of you?” Sherlock countered.

John put up no further fight, and Sherlock took his silence as assent.

“Now, Doctor, come up here and kiss me.” And Sherlock willed himself to be soft and tender, because they were both sore and tired and in desperate need of such. And John deserved such—his brave John, who shot and ran and took punches for him, who followed wherever he led.

And Sherlock told him so—with his mouth at John's ear, half in John's lap, pulling John's jumper over his head and see for himself what other bruises might be blossoming in a grotesque bouquet of devotion. And then he slid to the floor in the hopes of seeing the rest.

“Stay off your leg,” John gasped, ever the professional, even as Sherlock freed him from his pants.

Sherlock obediently shifted his weight onto his uninjured leg and took John's erection in hand. He knew they both needed to be in bed, sleeping this off. But John had gone slack-jawed, his head tilted back, and Sherlock knew he couldn't resist.

John didn't need any teasing, so Sherlock gave him a few long strokes before adding his tongue. A soft “Oh, yes,” from John was more than enough encouragement, and so Sherlock took John into his mouth completely.

Sherlock worked for a few moments, happy to hear every hitch in breathing and soft moan, but it was John's whispered “please” that sent Sherlock's hand into his own trousers, wanting and hoping to come when John did. It would be fitting, he thought, especially considering how well they'd worked together thus far that evening.

And John knew it, because even as his own climax rushed at him, he begged, “Come for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to domenicapm for the last-minute beta. This was not extensively Britpicked, so there may be mistakes in that regard.


End file.
